


Duality of Man

by magikfanfic



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Backstory, Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Rogue One, almost public sexual situations, mentions of mutual pining, unspecified trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 15:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18803236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magikfanfic/pseuds/magikfanfic
Summary: Chirrut is moaning, and while it’s nowhere near his normal volume, it’s still loud enough and wanton enough to potentially be heard.





	Duality of Man

**Author's Note:**

> Just some weird little drabble thing I ended up with. Warning for some mentions of what could be Force precognition from Baze that speak to the Rogue One Empire events. Also, not completely sure of Chirrut's backstory in this, though it's definitely darker than other versions of him I have in things. This was supposed to be porn, but instead, it caught weird feelings.

Chirrut is moaning, and while it’s nowhere near his normal volume, it’s still loud enough and wanton enough to potentially be heard. It’s also making Baze hard instantaneously, and he rolls his hips into Chirrut’s before he can really take a moment to consider whether that’s the best motion at the moment. Short answer, it’s not because Chirrut, spurned on by the grinding, moans again. Louder. 

“Please be quiet,” Baze mutters, unsure whether the words manage to go anywhere other than inside of Chirrut’s mouth because that is how close they are pressed together in the alcove, trying to be quiet, trying to be discreet, trying not to get caught out in the middle of the temple performing private acts where no one else wants to see them, which is one of the ways the elders described things the last time they were discovered in a similar position. 

This time Baze was on his way to the kitchens for his shift when Chirrut caught the back of his robe in a hand and physically drug him into the alcove, giggling, hands everywhere in less time than it should have taken to touch. They are both going to be late to wherever they’re supposed to be right now, which will result in at least a talking to about punctuality and being dependable and a reliable pillar of the Whills. It’s a speech that Baze knows Chirrut has heard repeatedly over the years because Chirrut knows no time other than his own. Baze, though, is rarely ever late, shows up to things early and then waits, hands folded in the sleeves of his robe or begins tasks when he arrives because he is dutiful and responsible.

Dutiful and responsible until Chirrut’s hands are lightning across his skin and then everything else goes out the window. Chirrut’s teeth on his neck send a shudder down Baze’s spine and now it’s him moaning too loudly and pressing his hips forward again, cock hard and aching already because it’s Chirrut. It’s embarrassing to admit even to himself, but Chirrut has been his cock’s main obsession for much longer than Baze would ever confess, especially to Chirrut who is currently leaving marks across Baze’s collarbone. 

Baze’s interest in Chirrut was probably as apparent as the fireworks over the city during the festival of lights, though he never wanted it to show, tried his best to taper it down, make it nothing, make it small, as though by folding it over and over on itself it would eventually be so compact that no one could see it at all. It is, instead, as finely honed as any of the paper flowers in the marketplace, a delicately, carefully crafted homage. A favor. A treasure. But it is not just one flower, not something easily pocketed. No, it’s an arbor covered in bright blooms with heady perfume and probably something terribly ostentatious like pewter feathered swans swimming in a small pond next to it. They’re gaudy, his feelings, and heavy, ornate, undeniable. 

So loud, he thought, that they spurred Chirrut to action. Chirrut, usually bright-eyed but oddly somber, had marched over and challenged him to duel. To the winner went the spoils, the answer to any question. Baze hadn’t been sure what Chirrut was going to ask, no one was ever quite sure what Chirrut was going to ask or do; he always lived according to his own rules, his own reason, like some bird wheeling circles in the sky, buffeted by winds the rest of them would never know. Baze had no idea what Chirrut wanted to know until Chirrut had him pinned to the ground after less than five minutes, straddling him, breathing faster than he should have been considering the small amount of exertion. 

“I won,” Chirrut had said, and his pupils were small and strange and darting like fish. His eyes would not come to rest on Baze’s face completely, which might have simply been because Baze was staring intently at the way his lips curled up, the angle of his cheekbone, the white of his teeth, the arch of his neck. 

And Baze had started to get hard, his body betraying him as surely as his words and his looks did every single day only now it would be difficult to hide in the kitchens or in the archive or in the garden, the smaller, quieter places that he knew Chirrut did not go. Now he was stretched out on the ground of the training room with Chirrut straddling him, looking and not looking at him, and if he hadn’t felt Baze’s erection yet, he was certainly going to, especially if Baze moved at all. Baze had swallowed. “Yes.” Yes, you won. Yes, you will always win. I will never be able to stomach beating you. 

“Can I kiss you?” Chirrut had asked, eyes still turned away, head canted just a little bit, and he had looked, to Baze’s eyes, almost shy and softer than Baze had ever imagined possible from the same person who routinely came back to the temple with blood smeared across his face from challenging some of the NiJedhan traders to brawls.

“Yes,” Baze had answered and kept answering, kept repeating that word, “yes, yes”, into Chirrut’s mouth when he kissed him, against Chirrut’s skin when they scrabbled clothing off and held each other. 

If Baze’s interest had been a firework during the light festival, Chirrut had been the hidden flame that sets it off. No one thinks to look for it so it’s almost as though it’s never there at all. 

In the alcove, Chirrut’s mouth and hands are greedy, latched onto Baze’s body, hips pressed flush against Baze’s and rocking their erections together, pulling breathy moans from Baze that seem too loud in the enclosed space. At this rate, Baze thinks, as Chirrut sucks another mark onto his chest, everyone in the temple is going to hear them. It somehow doesn’t matter as much now. 

He cups his hands around Chirrut’s face and gently tugs it up, always unprepared for the beauty of kiss-bruised lips and lust filled eyes, the way that wanting makes Chirrut look like something vulnerable without ever smoothing out the dangerous tilt of him. Of the two of them, Chirrut is the one who can easily best a roomful of guardians without breaking a sweat and then stomp off, undeterred, possessed only of himself, and not even glance back. Baze has never known a touch more tender than Chirrut’s, however, and it is, he thinks, a prime example of the duality of man that some of the masters talk about when they speak of the Jedi, the Sith, the Force. 

“Would you be a Jedi?” Chirrut had asked several months after their duel, after their kiss, after Baze found himself confessing in a way he imagined Chirrut would find unbecoming, but he had not. Baze had held Chirrut’s hands and looked at the hollow of his throat as he let the words unwind, prepared to leave when asked, but Chirrut could do nothing in the face of the confession but cry in relief and hold Baze’s face in his hands once he was done speaking. Sometimes, Baze had known, love is not a word that everyone can speak, but Chirrut’s actions more than made up for the lack.

Baze, naked, spent, nearly asleep, had reluctantly shifted into a sitting position to look at Chirrut, to trace his fingers across Chirrut’s skin, so scarred that it was impossible to count them all, a snarled mess of damaged skin, and said, “No, never,” because they knew. They all knew. What the Jedi taught, what the Jedi forbade, and his was there under his fingers and would never be taken away. It hurt him to ask in return, “Would you?”

And Chirrut’s hands had sunk so deep into his hair as to almost disappear. “I think I’d end up a Sith.”

Neither of them had breathed for a moment.

Then Baze had extricated Chirrut’s hands from his hair to hold him close, to pull him against the curves and folds of his body, all the soft places that he hated to have highlighted, that Chirrut adored in worshipping, and kissed him until Chirrut no longer tasted like something that could be anything other than him. 

The Force, Baze knows, is not divided into two natures, but people can be. Sometimes. That is how the Jedi grow, that is how the Sith grow, split at the root by something inside of them that cannot appreciate the whole. 

Chirrut has honed himself into someone who can kick a man in the throat to kill him and then walk away as if nothing has happened. Chirrut, however, will also cry with unrestrained joy when they are intertwined together, when Baze arches up to meet his thrusts and holds his hands and tells him that he loves him. No one is ever just one thing. Everyone is a palette swirled with paint, colors spread across and mixing into something new, different hues.

Baze has dreamed of Chirrut smeared with red. Baze had dreamed himself bathed in blue like cascading rain. Baze has dreamed of a shadow over Jedha that never lifts.

In the here and now, Baze licks into Chirrut’s mouth and surges forward with his hips and curses the existence of clothing. In a tiny alcove, Chirrut’s moans rise in volume until the shuddering of his breath is the only thing that Baze can hear. 

He has completely forgotten any need for silence, especially when every bitten off shout is that word that Chirrut cannot seem to form in any way but this, the one that only Baze knows how to hear: love.


End file.
